


Misfortune's Child

by Slashy Goodness (allmadhere)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 16 Candles, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmadhere/pseuds/Slashy%20Goodness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick can put Pete back together. He always does.</p><p>"Not a fight..." Pete mumbles out, shivering and practically looking through him in a way that makes Joe shudder and want to slam the door in his face. His eyes are dull, like someone stole all the mischievous fire and life out of Pete through them. Something’s off, way off, but he’s never not been a loyal friend and just herds Pete gently into the duplex’s tiny foyer crowded with their shoes, jackets, and mail. Pete hesitates at the door like he doesn’t expect to be able to get in, small and quick but Joe catches it. A car drives quietly past on the suburban street and the play of clear light over Pete’s face makes a chill crawl up his spine. He shoves it away as he shuts the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misfortune's Child

Joe’s grinning when he opens the door, still laughing at a joke on TV. It quickly slides away as he gets a good look. "Shit, Pete? Pete, what happened to you? Is that blood?” He looks him over quickly and comes up with an assessment: shit. “Fuck, who'd you get in a fight with this time?"

There’s blood smeared across half his face and neck, probably more hidden under the hoodie, and his mouth looks like rubbed in it. Joe’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Pete this pale since the time he locked himself in the room at his parents’ house and didn’t eat, sleep, or see the sun for almost two weeks. He chest doesn’t even seem to be moving under the thick fabric but that has to just be a trick of the gloomy gaslight outside making Pete look so dead.

"Not a fight..." Pete mumbles out, shivering and practically looking through him in a way that makes Joe shudder and want to slam the door in his face. His eyes are dull, like someone stole all the mischievous fire and life out of Pete through them. Something’s off, way off, but he’s never not been a loyal friend and just herds Pete gently into the duplex’s tiny foyer crowded with their shoes, jackets, and mail. Pete hesitates at the door like he doesn’t expect to be able to get in, small and quick but Joe catches it. A car drives quietly past on the suburban street and the play of clear light over Pete’s face makes a chill crawl up his spine. He shoves it away as he shuts the door.

Joe goes to peel off the hoodie but changes his mind when Pete twitches away violently and wraps his arms around himself, ramming his hip into the tiny side table with everyone’s keys. He either doesn’t feel it or ignores it completely, not even acknowledging the clattering bang of wood topped by metal into brick. Joe frowns and drapes another hoodie over Pete’s shoulders but the constant shivering persists and threatens to take over Pete’s entire body with full-body shakes. “Okay, so it wasn't a fight. Then what the fuck happened to you?" He heads back into the house and Pete shuffles after him, quiet but for his feet on the floorboards, and it creeps Joe out like no scary movie ever could. Probably because it’s real life this time, set to a soundtrack of late night syndicated reruns that are barely even funny now.

Pete drops onto their sofa at the same time Andy walks back in, bowl of unbuttered popcorn in hand. "So thirsty..." Pete murmurs, listing to the side a little but Andy runs to catch him and sets the bowl on the secondhand coffee table. An ill-timed audience sigh echoes out from the TV’s speakers. He looks Pete over carefully, sitting him up straight again against the arm of the sofa, as Joe peers anxiously over his shoulder. Pete looks pale, drawn, and sickly now but it’s just the mix of the lights from the nearby floor lamp and the television making him look this oddly tinted green. It has to be.

"Hangover?" Andy suggests, glancing back at Joe.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Hurley,” Joe says with a shrug. He moves to kneel in front of Pete, making himself as non-threatening as possible. “Hey, Pete?” he says gently, watching Pete carefully for any sort of reaction. “What do you remember? What happened when you left the bar?"

"Nnngh, can't think.” Pete clutches tightly at his head and curls in on himself and the melodramatic recorded audience gasps as his fingers dig into his scalp with soft scratches. It takes long minutes of cooing and coaxing to get him to relax and they shudder every time they brush his cold, clammy skin. “So thirsty..." he moans, doubling in on himself again but slowly uncurling on his own.

"Oh, shit, right,” Joe hops up, any excuse to get out of there. “I'll go, you stay with him." He scurries into the kitchen and out of sight. Andy wants to call him out on being a coward but he’s cursing that he didn’t think of it first.

"Andy...?" Pete reaches blindly for his hand, staring straight ahead. Andy watches it clench on his jean-clad leg and swallows hard before lacing their fingers together. He’s never been so glad that he decided not to eat much as he is now, his throat trying to work up to dry heaves he hopes Pete can’t sense. There’s someone giving a long and probably emotional speech that he can’t focus on with Pete so close.

It takes him a few long seconds to work up to saying anything, let alone anything consoling. Not when he feels the need to run without looking back when faced with the bright blue veins under too pale to be real skin. "I'm right here, Pete. Joe should be back in a second.” He swallows down the rising bile and holds Pete’s hand a little tighter. “Remember anything?" Pete shudders hard and lets Andy’s hand drop as he pulls himself into a tight ball.

"He-- it... it bit me. When we--.” Pete groans and hugs himself tighter. “So cold, why am I so cold?" He turns to Andy, his eyes dull and full of fear and confusion.

"Cold?” He says in disbelief, laying a hand on Pete’s forehead and pulling away quickly. “Fuck, you're freezing, Wentz. Come on, sit over here.” Pete lets himself be pulled into the raggedy armchair, still shivering as he sinks into the cushions. “I need to wrap you in a blanket or something. Here." Andy grabs the throw from the back of the couch and tucks it tight around Pete. Something about restraining him even that little bit eases his mind.

"Tired. Tired and hungry. Feels so wrong." Pete moans and tosses his head from side to side weakly before convulsing and slowly relaxing back into the chair. A cheerful ending theme blares out from the TV, too loud and inappropriate. Andy jumps, fumbling for the remote and turning it off quickly. The song stops mid-beat.

"Shit, this officially the weirdest fucking hangover you've ever had, Wentz.” Andy leans in and takes a closer look, seeing that he’s either not breathing and it’s so shallow that he can’t tell. Pete’s eyelids flutter a little and his head lolls to the side. “Pete? Shit." Andy’s too afraid to touch and shake him, the sudden utter silence making it all the more frightening.

"Andy?” Patrick walks down the stairs, peering down at them curiously. He’s focused on Andy until Pete shivers, barely perceptible. “What's going-- Oh fuck, Pete?" He rushes to Pete’s side, taking his face in his hands and not even flinching at the feel of his skin. His lip trembles a little, either on the verge of tears or a rage that would put most people to shame.

"Patrick, before you lose it --" Andy inches away a little until he’s safely seated on the couch and out of reach.

"What the fuck happened to Pete?!” Patrick turns to Andy with tears in his eyes and his voice trembling and Andy knows they’re going to get the worst of both worlds. “Why is he covered in blood!? What happened to him, Andy!? Why isn't he moving!?" Patrick looks desperate now and Joe freezes in the doorway before he can come back into the room.

"That's what we're trying to figure out. Calm down, okay?” Andy lays a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, glad for the warmth radiating up through the old tee shirt he has on. “I think Pete's just passed out for now. Did you see who he left the bar with? Or who he was with after our set?"

"I think he went with some tall guy?” Patrick’s entire face goes dark and Andy knows he’s hit a nerve, a deep one, but they need to find out. “Really well dressed, pretty the way Pete likes. Kind of hard to miss." He sneers and looks away from them all. Joe goes back into the kitchen.

"I think he bit Pete," Andy says quietly, turning Patrick around to face him properly.

Patrick raises an eyebrow at him. "Umm, kinks aren't exactly my area of expertise, Hurley. And who bites hard enough to draw blood anyway?" Andy knows what he’s thinking, that some kink-driven asshole with no control was probably exactly what Pete had wanted and he bit off more than he could chew. He knows because he’s pretty sure that, on some level, Patrick’s probably right.

"Aside from a psycho or, I don't know, a vampire?” Andy shrugs and looks at Pete again, even though he’s completely still. “No clue."

"A vampire? Really?” Patrick looks like he wants to scoff and laugh and dismiss it entirely. “They aren't real, Hurley."

"I mean people who live the lifestyle, people who believe they're actually vampires, not the literary device.” Andy scratches lightly at his beard, pulling a face as he tries to think of the best way to explain the whole sub-culture in the precious little time they have. “It's... it's actually sort of complicated."

"How do you even know this shit, Hurley?" Patrick’s anger breaks a little, Andy can see it as he shakes his head in disbelief and his lips twitch, but he’s still hurt.

A tiny ray of sunshine through the clouds is still sunshine and Andy grins in a bid to dispel the anger entirely. "It comes up in conversation sometimes.” They grin, just on the brink of hysterical laughter.

"Rick?" Pete mumbles, head rolling against the chair’s back. Their eyes go wide and shoot to him and his trembling lips, fluttering eyelids, and the lumps twitching where his fingers should be.

"Pete? Pete!” Patrick grasps his face and kisses him full on the lips. He’s only blushing a little when he pulls back and lays his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Oh, thank fuck you're awake!" He’s on the very verge of tears but he sniffs them back and simply holds on to Pete’s still shivering body.

Pete wrestles an arm from under the tightly tucked blanket and wraps it around Patrick, equal parts possessive and needy. "Rick, so thirsty, so cold." He groans and pulls Patrick closer. Andy frowns and Patrick glares at him, chin thrust out. He knows what that look means and he doesn’t even put up a fight as they transfer Pete back to the couch with one on either side in a weak bid for shared body warmth.

"How are you even cold?” Patrick chides playfully, shakily, as he moves in close again. “You're wearing two hoodies and a blanket. It's the middle of spring. Fuck, it doesn't even matter. What happened to you?" He waits patiently for an answer while Andy stares at the darkened fabric of the arm chair where Pete’s blood has soaked through too many times before. It’s so dark this time it might not even come out. Too dark not to be fatal and it makes him sick. Patrick must have picked up the remote at some point when Andy wasn’t paying attention because he points it at the TV and turns it back on, the tail end of an opening theme song lancing through the silence.

"Don't know.” Pete shakes his head and presses closer to Patrick like he needs him more than words could ever say. “Hurts to remember."

"Okay..." Patrick pushes the hair out of Pete’s eyes and Pete relaxes before pressing into the touch.

"Patrick, wait. This doesn't feel right." Andy scoots away from them, shaking his head and standing up. His mouth works as he tries to find the words but they refuse to come, bile working its way up again rather than discourse.

"Of course it doesn't fucking feel right,” Patrick hisses, sitting up just a little and looking him in the eyes. All the better to glare at Andy with. “Best friend lying injured and bleeding on our couch?"

"That's not what I mean,” Andy says with a shake of his head as he starts to pace nervously. “It's just... something's so fucking off about this whole thing." He looks back at Patrick, about to say more, but he can only stare as Pete sits up, suddenly alert and staring at Patrick’s neck.

"Patrick..." Pete blinks a few times and tightens his grip on Patrick. He leans in and takes a deep inhale of his throat.

"Pete...?" Patrick’s voice shakes just a little and he tries to wriggle away. Pete’s grip is like iron now somehow and Patrick’s contained thrashing just makes Pete bury his face in his neck. Patrick’s eyes go wide and he looks to Andy for help, anything, but Andy’s feet are nailed to the floor. Fangs run over Patrick’s skin and he screams, flailing hard enough to squirm away.

He doesn’t get far. Pete’s up faster than they can see and has Patrick pinned down to the dirty floor with a manic grin and fangs that glint in the yellow light of the lamps. “Patrick,” he whispers, leaning in close and pressing his face in Patrick’s neck. Pete takes slow, deep, deliberate inhales while Patrick shivers and stares up at the ceiling. “Hey, Hurley, I’ll give you and Joe a head start. Run now.” Andy edges his way around them before ducking into the kitchen with Joe. He can’t even look Patrick in the eyes as he grabs Joe and pulls him up the back stairs.

“Pete, you don’t have to do this,” Patrick says quietly, voice quivering and high. He swallows, can’t help it, and Pete growls deep in his throat as he licks over the bobbing Adam’s apple. “Pete, we can get through this, just...”

“‘We can get through this’,” Pete says flatly, pulling back and Patrick can see his eyes swimming with red. “You really fucking think we can get through something like this?” He laughs and sneers down at Patrick, harsh and cold. “Don’t be a naive little shit, not now.” Pete applies more pressure to Patrick’s wrists, making him cry out. “Come on, Rick, tell me how you really feel.”

Patrick grits his teeth, eyes closed tight as he struggles harder. “I think you’re being a dick. Get the fuck off of me.” He squirms a little more to no avail before letting himself go limp against the floor. Pete is just as cold and staring above him as before. “What exactly is it that you want to hear me say, Pete?” Patrick sighs, looking up in defeat and resignation.

“I want to hear you tell me the truth for once,” Pete hisses vehemently, bending down to lean in close. “Tell me every little dark thought about me you have buried in your heart so I can taste the truth after I rip it out of your chest.” His head droops suddenly and his shoulders shake like he’s sobbing, the sound lost in a sitcom laugh track.

“Pete,” Patrick says softly, trying look through the dark hair and hood to his eyes. “Pete, look at me.” The fingers around his wrists tighten and he screams but it loosens, in fits and starts and increments. “Pete, please, listen to me. Please.” He reaches up and tilts Pete’s chin forward. “I want you to stop doing this, stop going out and finding a quick fuck and making me put you back together every time. Hell, I’ve wanted you to stop since I...” He trails off and looks away.

Pete pulls away with a hiss, grabbing Patrick’s wrists and pinning them down to the floor again. “You wanted me to stop, huhn? Then why the fuck didn’t you say anything? What, was it funny for you? Did I give you a few good laughs?” He leans in and bares his fangs in Patrick’s turned face. “Fucking look at me!”

“Fuck you!” Patrick screams back, head snapping to him with eyes full of fire, and Pete pulls back a little in surprise. A laugh track cuts through the sudden silence like a knife. Pete growls in frustration, reaches for the remote and hurls it through the set in crash-screech-spark-flash they both stare at dumbly for long minutes. They drift slowly apart like magnets with the same weak polarity.

“Pete, look at yourself, really look.” Patrick sits himself up with a sigh and slowly rotates his wrists. “I’m not just talking about now, with this thing, I mean overall. The big picture that counselor in high school always talked about and we never listened to but now...” Patrick spreads his arms and Pete crawls into them, shaking like before but wide-eyed and staring innocently now. Patrick just holds him close and hums gently, something that could maybe be a lullaby until the shakes turn to shivers turn to occasional tremors.

“Patrick, I don’t want this,” Pete mumbles, pressing his face into Patrick’s neck and breathing deep. “You smell so good and he... It...” Pete shakes his head and curls in closer.

“Shhh, you don’t have to tell me yet,” Patrick soothes, running his fingers gently through Pete’s hair. The sheer amount of dirt and debris he dislodges makes him wonder how they all overlooked it before now. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”

Pete shakes his head violently, shoving Patrick away and scrambling back. “No, you don’t understand. You can’t. I--” Pete looks him in the eyes, panting like he’s sprinted a mile and tongue pressed against his fangs. “I want to fuck you until you cry and bleed, drain you dry, and fuck you again.” Patrick shudders but neither of them know how to read it. “Some part of me would get so fucking hard at just the thought that I--. I don’t want to do that to you, snap and lose control or something. You mean too much to me.” His grin is shaky at best but Patrick doesn’t call him on it.

“Go in the basement for the day,” Patrick says quietly, stroking Pete’s hair again, and Pete sighs contentedly. “I’m not really ready to test the whole sunlight thing just yet.” Patrick chuckles and Pete grins, laying his head in his lap and inching closer closer closer... “I’m not going with you.” Pete stops immediately, sits up straight, and glares at him, cold and hard again in an instant. “I can’t you know I can’t.” Pete stands up and calmly walks into the basement, firmly closing the door behind him. Patrick locks it when the first piece of furniture hits the concrete walls followed by bellowing that sounds like they’ve trapped a wild animal rather than the second name on the lease.

It lasts until after sunrise.


End file.
